Follow a Star, page 1
Copyright © 2014 Christine Stovell
Published 2014 by Choc Lit Limited
Penrose House, Crawley Drive, Camberley, Surrey GU15 2AB, UK
www.choc-lit.com
The right of Christine Stovell to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the UK such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London, W1P 9HE
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available
from the British Library
ISBN 978-1-78189-138-4 (epub)
ISBN 978-1-78189-139-1 (mobi)
ISBN 978-1-78189-137-7 (epdf)
To my guiding stars, Tom, Jen and Caroline,
with love.
Contents
Title page
Copyright information
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
About the Author
More Choc Lit
Introducing Choc Lit
More from Choc Lit
Acknowledgements
My sincere thanks to the following:
Jan and Roger Smith, for their generous hospitality, for updating me on the pleasures and perils of the North Sea, and for the loan of their charts (which are in a safe place!)
Margaret and Richard Masson, for happy memories and dreams shared on Hephzibah.
The band, Clocks – Tom, Rich, Ed and John – for the VIP passes.
Gillian, my daughter-in-law, who wanted a different kind of hero.
Jill Shearer, for her unstinting support and for keeping a weather eye on my astrological chart.
The Choc Lit team, my editor and my fellow ChocLiteers.
Sarah and Mandy; writing buddies, cheerleaders and twin pillars of support – thanks for propping me up!
My family and dear friends for bearing with me.
And most of all to Tom, who took me to sea in a little wooden boat and my beloved daughters, Jennifer and Caroline, who joined in the adventure.
None of this would have been possible without you.
Chapter One
May Starling stood outside the deserted railway station on what should have been a pleasant July evening, wondering what had happened to the man who was supposed to be meeting her. There wasn’t a car in sight. Certainly no sign of the new silver Jaguar that Cecil Blythe claimed she wouldn’t miss. Nor was there, she thought looking round for a crumb of comfort, a cheery line of cabbies jostling for her custom.
There were three texts on her mobile, all from Aiden, which she ignored, and when she tried the number for Cecil Blythe it was unavailable. Perhaps he’d gone straight to the marina and was now so engrossed in his new toy he’d forgotten all about her? May squinted up at the blue and peach summer sky then down at the empty street curving over the crest of a hill. From the brow she’d probably be able to see the sea. If she was really lucky she might even spot a cluster of masts or the gleam of white hulls glowing apricot under the evening sun. Or she could stand there, checking her watch and phone every few minutes, until Cecil Blythe remembered he was supposed to be collecting her.
Hefting her bag over her shoulder, she set off, telling herself some vigorous exercise would settle that fluttering feeling of anxiety batting at her fragile hopes with insistent wings. Her sense of disquiet had grown on the journey. Squeezed on to the cramped train from outer London to the south coast with dozens of office workers at the dog-end of the week, her nerve endings prickled every time a blank stare slid over her, only relaxing when whoever it was turned their attention elsewhere.
But it was ridiculous to imagine that anyone would even notice her, let alone recognise her. They all had their own lives to get on with and weekends to plan. Who’d be looking for her here? Not Aiden, anyway; the great outdoors was the last place he’d expect to find her. So she could loosen up, use the brisk walk to regain her perspective and enjoy her adventure. If Cecil Blythe’s new boat had been berthed in one of the marinas closer to the mouth of Portsmouth’s historic harbour, she wouldn’t even have needed a lift, but Jollimarine, some four miles up one of the sleepier creeks meandering off from the main body of water, was a lot less accessible by land and public transport.
It couldn’t be that hard to find, could it? Logically, all she had to do was to follow the road downhill to the sea until she got her bearings. Striking out, though, it seemed to be a very long road. And now that the few houses grouped around the station were behind her and fields widened out either side, it was lonely too. Lonelier than she would have wished …
Careful what you wish for, wasn’t that the saying? And oh, how she’d wished for her dream to come true. If only she’d realised that shooting for the moon would send her spinning back down to earth. If only someone had warned her about … May gradually became aware that she wasn’t alone any more. So far as an old Land Rover Defender could creep along, this one was. And right beside her. May took a quick sideways glance at a male face turned towards her then stared fixedly ahead.
Ohmigod! A kerb crawler. Here she was out in the middle of bloody nowhere and someone was after her body. He was probably some sex-starved farmer. She’d read about all these lonely men, forced to advertise for ‘housekeepers’, unable to attract girls from the city to their isolated acres. He shouted something. She caught the word ‘darling’ and hurried on. He roared ahead, stopped the car and, before she knew it, was blocking her path, six foot plus of lean muscle and broad-shouldered with it. May was not looking forward to running away from someone who looked as if he spent all his time wrestling bullocks to the ground. Especially not one with that hair colour. She whimpered.
‘I hope I haven’t got this wrong,’ he said, running his fingers through the offending mane. ‘Are you May Starling?’
Having conjured up an image of someone small and wiry, she was taken aback that her prospective skipper was so much taller, more energetic and, frankly, ginger-looking than she’d expected. Somewhere along the line, she’d also overestimated his age. The man in front of her was in his prime and bristled with vitality, like a Rhodesian Ridgeback eyeing up a rabbit. Slap in the middle of two hundred acres he probably wouldn’t look quite so strapping, but most boats would feel pretty confined with him aboard. ‘You must be Cecil Blythe,’ she said, recovering herself.
‘I’m Cecil’s nephew,’ he said, pulling on the Land Rover’s passenger door which opened with ominous groans. ‘We need to talk.’
It didn’t feel like an invitation so much as an order, and not a particularly friendly one at that. There wasn’t another soul in sight, but if she could hoof it back to the station, at least she could always hammer down someone’s front door if he made a nuisance of himself. ‘I don’t think so,’ she told him, starting to ease her bag off her shoulders in case she had to make a fast getaway. ‘I don’t know the first thing about you.’
‘Bill. How’s that for starters?’ he said, looking exasperated. ‘Bill Blythe. And you’re quite right not to trust me,’ he continued. ‘We’re complete strangers, aren’t we? Whereas you’ve done your homework and you know all about Cecil.’
‘Enough,’ May nodded, with more conviction than she felt.
‘His age?’
‘Well, I know he retired early.’
‘That’s true,’ Bill agreed pleasantly. ‘Cecil did indeed retire early, when he was fifty-two. Twenty years ago, in fact.’
May tried to sound nonchalant. ‘Many people sail at that age. He’s obviously fit enough to sail from Portsmouth, round the east coast and up to Little Spitmarsh or he wouldn’t be contemplating it. I daresay he’s factored sufficient breaks into the equation. At a steady pace it’ll take, what, a week at most? So, I’m not especially bothered about your uncle’s age; it’s a delivery trip not a blind date.’
‘I’m afraid Cecil had quite a different impression, especially from the tone of your reply,’ he told her, pushing one hand through the untidy red-gold thatch in apparent disbelief. ‘The excitement was too much for him.’
‘Oh God!’ May dropped her bag. ‘Is he …?’
‘Stable. A suspected he
May chewed her lip. If only she hadn’t been in such a hurry to get away. Maybe she should have calmed down a bit before pressing Send. ‘Your uncle’s ad wasn’t that bad,’ she said, more to convince herself than the man in front of her. How did it go now? Sea fever? Skipper, early retired, with comfortable yacht waiting, seeks friendly female fellow-rover. If you must go down to the seas again, let’s test the water together! ‘I would have given a wide berth to anyone expecting anything other than the sea to shake his cabin.’
As for being daft? Even though she’d been feeling slightly reckless, she had made very sure to avoid the fifty-something millionaire looking for a ‘sexy adventuress to spoil in exchange for no-strings fun.’ May stared at her bag and examined her conscience. Her e-mail, as far as she could recall, had been a light-hearted attempt to distinguish her reply from all the others. Given how wretched she’d been feeling at the time, she thought it was quite an achievement. For once in her life she had acted entirely on impulse, but unlike other people who managed to get away with it, this had all blown up in her face. Any other woman would probably have found themselves preparing to sip champagne on the sun deck with the Solent’s answer to George Clooney.
It was suitable punishment, she supposed, for her uncharacteristically impetuous behaviour that she’d inadvertently responded to the fantasies of a fragile old fraud. If that wasn’t bad enough, she had nowhere to stay. Having thoroughly burned her bridges with Aiden, and her parents planning a rave, who on earth could she land on for a week without being discovered?
May pulled herself together. ‘I’m terribly sorry about your uncle. It was precisely because his advert made him seem like a man with a sense of fun that made me think he’d appreciate a humorous reply – I had no idea that anyone would get hurt as a consequence.’
‘“I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea where I can handle myself pretty well on a boat as you’d know if you give me a try.”’ Bill quoted. ‘So far as Cecil was concerned he’d got a fast yacht and a fast woman to match.’
‘Oh, come on,’ May said, defensively. ‘It was supposed to be amusing.’
‘Yeah, well don’t take up writing poetry for a living, will you, or you’ll end up with all kinds of strange followers,’ he muttered.
May shot him a look to see if his barb was deliberate, but judging from his expression he was just thoroughly hacked off. And probably worried sick about his uncle too. She picked up her bag and struggled to redeem herself. ‘I don’t suppose there is anything I can do to help, is there?’
There was a long pause during which May waited for him to tell her that she had done quite enough already.
‘The bit in your reply about being able to handle yourself on a boat—’
Put like that, it didn’t sound too clever; she really hadn’t been thinking very clearly when she’d sent that reply.
‘I assume that’s a reference to your sailing experience,’ Bill said gruffly.
May longed for the ground to swallow her.
‘Since this boat means so much to Cecil, I’m going to make sure that it’s waiting for him as soon as he’s better,’ he continued. ‘It’ll give him an incentive to get well.’
‘That’s kind of you.’ May was relieved Bill sounded so sure of Cecil’s recovery. He might even give her a lift back to the station instead of getting her charged with attempted manslaughter.
‘No.’ He smiled at her as he took her bag and threw it in the Land Rover. ‘It’s kind of us. You signed up for this trip too. Remember?’
Chapter Two
Exactly what had Cecil been thinking? Bill saw May Starling’s pale lips part in alarm as her bag landed in the back of the beaten-up Defender where it dislodged a coil of salty old rope that let off a soupçon of aroma of dried seaweed. May stood at the side of the road making sad kitten faces at him with innocent honey-brown eyes that didn’t fool him in the slightest.
‘Your carriage awaits, Madam,’ he said, with an exaggerated sweeping gesture, leaning back against the passenger door which squealed in protest. She turned a cool gaze on him, the sad kitten act dropped as she weighed up her options. Not quite the impressionable old man with money to splash around she’d been expecting, he thought, almost laughing at her sheer transparency. Next would come the excuse, the urgent appointment she’d suddenly remember once it dawned on her that her meal ticket had been cancelled. He got ready to retrieve her bag. An extra pair of hands to ensure the safe delivery of Cecil’s precious boat would have been useful, but he strongly suspected that it would be no great loss doing without this particular first mate. He got the feeling that May Starling was used to other people running round after her, not used to hard work, in which case the walk back to the station would do her good. What a pity it was downhill.
‘Hold on a minute.’ She walked round to the back of the car, pulled out her phone, mouthing the registration number as she tapped it in and fired off a text. ‘Just so people know where to find me.’
Bill stood back as she swung herself into the passenger seat, his amazement temporarily forgotten as he registered the denim shorts moulding one peachy posterior and the lightly tanned, shapely legs. He slammed the door with unnecessary force, annoyed with Cecil and irritated with himself for the unwelcome revelation that the dormant goaty gene had apparently just surfaced in him.
‘You work around boats, then,’ said May, jerking her head at the pile of marine debris behind them on which her bag sat, playing king of the sandcastle.
‘Oh this isn’t mine,’ he shouted above an engine that sounded as if it ran on shrapnel before checking the rear mirror and pulling away. ‘I persuaded the guy who runs the yard at Jollimarine to lend it to me. I came down by train yesterday. I didn’t fancy leaving my own vehicle at the yard.’
‘I thought all these south coast marinas were rather smart. You’d think you’d get good security for the rates they charge so that boat owners don’t have to worry about their posh cars while they’re away.’
Bill smiled to himself. ‘Mine’s not very posh,’ he said smoothly. ‘But I need it for work. It’s a white Transit which takes all my tools.’
‘Ah,’ she said, sinking a little further into her seat.
Well, that had killed the conversation. One minute there you were anticipating a champagne cruise with a silly old fool with more money than sense, the next you found yourself press-ganged into doing nautical service with White Van Man. He almost wanted to apologise for trampling all over her fantasy. A couple of miles along the road and he could feel harsh reality sinking in when, out the corner of his eye, he saw her face turn towards him. He whistled tunelessly to himself as her gaze travelled slowly from the top of his unruly hair that needed a cut, over the thoroughly loved turtle-green hoodie and grubby grey canvas trousers and down to his battered brown work boots.
‘You are qualified to sail this boat, aren’t you?’ she said, at last.
‘Trust me,’ he grinned. Little Spitmarsh didn’t have many natural assets, but it did offer plenty of opportunities for messing around in boats. In theory, at least, when he wasn’t booked up with work for weeks. There weren’t many property developers who could still turn a profit in the straightened economic climate, but Matthew Corrigan, the man he’d been working with for the last two years, had achieved it through sheer hard graft and not being too greedy. An unfair amount of natural charm seemed to work wonders too. Beside him, he could sense May Starling’s lingering doubt quivering in the air like a taut string.
‘Anyway,’ he added nonchalantly, ‘you’re the one with all the experience, aren’t you? So, together, we’ll be just fine.’
Her gaze snapped back to the windscreen and she folded her arms and clicked her heels together. Perhaps, like Dorothy, she was wishing herself back home, except those weren’t ruby slippers on her feet, but deck shoes. An affectation, he wondered, part of the pretence? Or maybe she really did know something about sailing? The trip would be a lot less stressful for both of them if he didn’t have to worry about instructing her. But if not? She was about to find he was going to go right ahead and put her to work anyway.
